


take me into your hands

by hurryup



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 23:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12851820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurryup/pseuds/hurryup
Summary: “I think we're a mess,” Kanda grumbles. Allen's hands slide out of his hair, falling back down to the mattress— though he doesn't touch himself. Not without Kanda's permission.“But a good sort of mess,” Allen argues.





	take me into your hands

Even though it's well-past 10 PM, Kanda leaves the house with the door unlocked.

It's a break from routine, but a necessary one. Allen had texted that he might swing by, which actually meant that he definitely would — Kanda knew him well enough by now to intuit that much. Better to leave the door open than come home and find Allen shimmying through a window or picking the lock or, worst of all, sitting and waiting on the porch like an abandoned pet.

He wants a pack of cigarettes, though he knows the only _cafe-tabac_ still open was on Place du Trocadero. Too far for an evening's walk. He stops by the convenience store near the quay, winding through the streets past the lit lamps of the bus station.

The cashier stares at him tiredly from across the till, her eyes big and black and owlish. He buys sugar, milk, cream. He buys a box of black tea and a couple packets of hot chocolate. If Allen comes over, he'll surely want one or the other, and Kanda can never bank on which.

The past few days have been cold. Cold enough that there's still patches of snow dotting the yellowed grass in front of the Musee de l'Hommes, and each and every outdoor statue lining the city's parks and gardens is capped with white. Kanda doesn't mind it. He runs hot by nature, never needing more than a light sweater even on the coldest days, and any chill that might prickle the back of his neck is protected by the familiar fall of his long hair. Allen's just about the opposite. Allen tends towards the cold; cold hands especially, which he inevitably (annoyingly) chooses to warm up against the back of Kanda's neck.

There are still tourists on the terraces, late-night drinkers yelling up at the gold-faced moon with red-faced abandon. They're too loud, and they laugh when Kanda glares at them, lifting their glasses. _Vive la France!_ Kanda gives them the finger. They laugh again. To them, his brutishness seems attractively urbane.

Soon, the patio restaurants would bring all their their tables back inside, and their noise would at least be contained. With any luck, the streets might know a little fucking peace and quiet.

Kanda likes winter for that, the way it diminishes things, mutes them. The whole mood of a city seems to change when the first snow falls; people no longer laze about on the streets making idle chitchat, but rather hurry silently from place-to-place with a newly-invigorated urgency. A time of greater focus, and a time of greater silence.

Allen, however, is never one to shy from sound; he likes loud, bright things because he can hide in them. That he chills easily is only the first of maybe three or four reasons he can't handle winter; the second that wintertime seems to stir up a kind of melancholy in him. What comes to Kanda as a time of stillness and reflection is, to Allen, an open invitation to travel back to the worst of his memories. He gets restless, erratic. He suddenly finds he can't stand to be alone. So he finds himself on Kanda's doorstep.

This damned thing.

This gorgeous, miserable creature.

Allen always comes dressed the same, brown coat and a blue scarf. And he's always wearing the same smile; a little apologetic, eyes too bright, like someone with a high fever. And he always asks for tea or hot chocolate. And he wants to be close, physically. Held. He wants to be warm again.

Sometimes, all he really seems to want is sex. And that's something Kanda can give him just fine. In a way, it's easier than just holding him; Kanda's still awkward when it comes to physical affection. He's pretty sure he's the worst possible person Allen could be going to for this kind of thing, but Allen seems to want it from him specifically, so he does his best.

Rue Vineuse is all dark, like maybe there's been a power-cut, but back in Kanda's quarter everything is still lit up by the gloomy yellow bloom of streetlights. He comes up to his brown-brick house. Allen's car is in the driveway, parked next to his. It's a neat parking job, he thinks, and it's probably pretty strange that he notices this at all, but he does.

When he opens the front door, Allen is still standing in this threshold. He's still wearing his shoes, his brown coat, his blue scarf, and he's smiling a smile that Kanda loves and hates in equal measure.

“Sorry to break in,” Allen smiles, looking abashed. His cheeks are still flushed from the cold, hands buried in his pockets. “In my defense, the door was unlocked, though.”

“I left it unlocked on purpose,” Kanda says shortly. Allen looks down at the ground, the smile on his face twitching up and down uncertainly. “You want a drink?”

Allen mulls it over, scuffing his feet against the mat. “That's... well. I suppose a tea might be nice. If you're willing to make some, of course.”

“Sounds good,” Kanda says. He kicks his shoes off and shrugs off his sweater, padding forwards into the kitchen. As an afterthought, he lies, “I was gonna have some anyways.”

“It's cold out there, huh?” Allen says. Kanda turns the kitchen light on and fills the kettle up. Allen follows him, and when Kanda turns around, he's taken off his shoes and scarf, but not the jacket. “The heater in my car is busted, so I was freezing on the whole ride over.”

“You should get that checked,” Kanda said absently, setting the water to a boil. “Pretty sure that can fuck your car over.”

“Shit, no. Repairs are expensive.” The sound of his voice is a little muffled, mostly because he's come up behind Kanda to rest his face against his back. His hands come to rest on Kanda's waist, holding him, and Kanda lets him. He reached up for two mugs, and into his new box of tea for two bags.

“Cheapskate,” Kanda says. “Fuck. _I'll_ pay for it.”

Allen laughs, his voice tinged with something like embarrassment. He shakes his head once, then presses in closer, burying his face in between Kanda's shoulder blades.

“No, no, no. Not happening.”

“Better than having your sorry ass end up dead in a ditch,” Kanda grouses. “A broken car heater is less expensive than a funeral.”

“That's a little morbid, don't you think?”

“I'm being _practical_.”

The kettle whistles, water coming to roil at a bubble. Kanda lifts it, filling both mugs with the piping liquid.

“Morbid,” Allen repeats. His hands slide over Kanda's stomach, arms now looped around him in gentle kind of embrace. Kanda knows this cue. It means _thank you._

Kanda twists around in Allen's grip to face him. There's a strange quality to Allen's expression, one he just barely understands. It's lovely and gentle and wounded. Though his face is clear, he somehow looks bruised-up, sad and beat-up. He looks like a stray dog, the kind Kanda can't help but let in.

Kanda runs one thumb over Allen's cheekbone, then, in a burst of genuine affection, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. At the sensation of Kanda's lips closing over his, Allen lets out a small gasp; barely audible, but there all the same.

It's ridiculous, _really_. Kanda's must have kissed him a million times by now — and still, every single time, Allen stands and he _trembles_ like he's never been kissed in all his life.

(And it _definitely_ shouldn't be cute, but it is, it really fuckin' is.)

“Oi,” Kanda says, voice low. He leans up to kiss the crown of Allen's head, feeling a rush of satisfaction when Allen all but _melts_ against his chest. It's a selfish sort of satisfaction. An exploitation of Allen's hurt. It feels good, being wanted. Being _needed_. “How do you want your tea?”

 

# ⚜

 

Allen spreads his legs a little wider, fidgeting in ticklish pleasure at the lips touching so lightly over his legs. Kanda stays there, just there, near enough to tease but not enough yet to reward. Up the length of Allen's body, he watches the younger man contort in demanding little shifts, hips rocking back and forth, stomach pulling taut enough for the muscles to define in ridges before relaxing soft again on a sigh, almost petulant.

“Thank you,” Allen says, tucking an arm back beneath the pillow, and with the other, stroking damp strands from Kanda's face. It's a distinctly tender touch, and even though he's sprawled between Allen's legs, Kanda still has to fight to not recoil from such undisguised gentleness. It's not that he doesn't enjoy Allen's gentleness. He does. It's just — he, he's not _used_ to it yet. “For, ah. For taking me in.”

He's not used to it yet, but he wants to be.

“Taking you in?” Kanda repeats, frowning. He runs his thumbs down over Allen's hips.

“That's what this is, isn't it?” Allen says, laughing breathlessly. His hands are still in Kanda's hair, playing with it. He draws Kanda's fringe out of his face with one gentle sweep, the motion indescribably sweet. Kanda's stomach instantly ties itself into a knot.

Pretending that he's not struggling with the sensation, he focuses on Allen's body, so pliant and pale beneath him. Allen's hard, the flushed head of his cock bobbing so close to where Kanda's lips are wandering, but Kanda ignores it for the time being, knowing that you can only wring the best responses out of Allen with a little teasing first.

“It's a just weird turn of phrase,” he murmurs against Allen's thigh. His lips wander back up towards the twitching slate of his stomach. “Makes it sound like I'm taking in a stray dog.”

Allen laughs again, shoulders shaking, “Well, that's just me, isn't it? A mutt and a stray— _oh!_ ”

Kanda's left hand is hooked beneath Allen's hips, over his ass, tilting it up in his direction. He wraps his right around Allen's cock, bringing it in towards his mouth to teasingly lick over the head.

“My door is always open for you,” Kanda says, pulling his mouth off of Allen to shoot him a look. “You should know that by now. Idiot.”

“Now that's... just plain _rude_ ,” Allen says. If he means to sound admonishing, he's doing a terrible job of it. His voice cuts all wrong, too high and breathy, cheeks bright pink, cock flushed and twitching. A lovely sight, really. “I'm trying to be grateful, you ass.”

“Don't bother,” Kanda deadpans. “It doesn't suit you.”

Allen's hands in Kanda's hair tighten into fists, yanking it to the roots. It stings, but it's not unpleasant.

“Would you rather I was _un_ grateful?”

“Shit, absolutely,” Kanda returns. He punctuates this point with a short stroke over the length of Allen's cock. At the sensation, Allen's eyes flutter shut, teeth biting down on his lower lip as if to put a muffler on himself. He's squirming and he's shaking and he's gorgeous, betraying himself with tiny little _ah ah ahs_ that Kanda can't get enough of. “Be ungrateful. Be _selfish_. Take what you want from me whenever, wherever.”

A breath of laughter. He's filled with a sweet delirium, Kanda's boy, just a hair shy of _hysteric_.

“Is that... was that supposed to be romantic?” Allen asks, coming down slightly. “Oh God, I think it was.”

Kanda smacks Allen's upper thigh, earning a second peal of laughter for his troubles.

Allen's beautiful like this, somehow. He's beautiful, but Kanda can't tell him that. Not right now.

“You're fucking awful, I hope you know,” Kanda says instead, shooting a glare, and Allen's shoulders shake with the laugh reverberations of his laughter.

“Yes sir, I am.”

“A right shit,” Kanda growled, pressing a sharp kiss to the jut of a hip. Then, he tilts his head against Allen's skin, listening carefully for the pulse running beneath.

“You gonna punish me for it?”

“Maybe,” Kanda answers cryptically. “How 'bout I send you back out into the cold without my cock?”

Allen squirms, angling his face down to properly aim a pout in Kanda's direction.

“That doesn't sound like very much fun.”

“Punishments aren't _supposed_ to be fun.”

“But they _can_ be,” Allen all but _purrs_ , shifting his hips so that his hardening cock rubs up against Kanda's cheek. Kanda sighs, lifting his head up out of Allen's reach.

“For you, maybe,” he growls. He reached out with one hand, abruptly pinching the skin of Allen's thigh. Allen lets out a sharp sound. It's a moan, it's a gasp of pain, it's a breath of surprise— it's all of these things and none of them, and _fuck_ , it's hot as hell. “Masochist.”

“Sadist,” Allen returns without rancor. He works his bottom lip in between his teeth before setting it free, wet and pink. His hips buck up at nothing, eyes glazing over with a slow-burning desperation. He is a terror. He is a delight. He is consummately strange in more ways than Kanda can count, and Kanda cannot imagine a day in which he will not be entirely too enchanted by him. “I think we're well-matched.”

“I think we're a mess,” Kanda grumbles. Allen's hands slide out of his hair, falling back down to the mattress— though he doesn't touch himself. Not without Kanda's permission.

“But a good sort of mess,” Allen argues.

“Is there even such a thing?”

“Yes,” Allen says. “Yes, I definitely think so.” Like this, flat on his back, he reminds Kanda of a cat lying in the sun; body taken over by an indolent, hedonistic kind of languor. There's this feeling again, this terror; _I love him, and I don't know what to do about it. He's beautiful, but I can't tell him. Can't or won't? Fuck, fuck this._ “Now, hurry up and put your hands on me. You're driving me _insane_.”

On his knees, Kanda follows up, up, up along the line of Allen's body. He only stops once the full length of his naked bodies is flush against Allen's. And God, that's fucking _good_. Allen's skin is hot, overheating already, cocks rubbing up against Kanda's, fully-hard. At the friction, Allen lets out this short, high sound, practically a mewl, and Kanda — Kanda can't take it. Can't ignore that.

On a whim, he leans back down and kisses Allen. Kisses him hard, open. Kisses him because he loves him, because he wants him, because he needs him, because it feels _right_ _—_ and why shouldn't he? Why shouldn't he kiss Allen?

(Why can't he love the feeling of Allen's hands in his hair?)

Allen's lips are warm and hot, his tongue slick. There is nothing in their sight but the other, nothing to be heard but harsh breathes through their noses. The sound of their kissing smother out anything else. Consuming. Overwhelming. And Allen is a fantastic fucking kisser. So hot and so coy that Kanda is retroactively jealous, enraged; he's _out of his mind_ at the thought of Allen having kissed anyone but him, belonging to anyone but _him_.

Allen Walker is the loveliest mess Kanda has ever laid eyes on. That much is for certain.

But he's Kanda's mess.

“ _Christ_ , darling,” Allen gasps as Kanda's teeth connect to his shoulder, then his neck, then his pulse point right below his jaw — and God, yes, Allen is sensitive here. He shudders and moans, fingernails digging into the muscles of Kanda's shoulders. “Yes, that's, t-that's exactly— _oh!_ ”

“What do you want?” Kanda murmurs, speaking against the warm flush of Allen's skin. He loves being close to him, love breathing him in. Here, he catches the scent of sweat, of arousal, and of himself. There's something else, too, the scent of Allen, so lovely and so consummately hard-to-describe. It's soignée, subdued and pretty, with an edge of something cool and fresh, like an April rain. Kanda tries to commit the scent to memory, to preserve it like an antique perfume.

Kanda's always been wary of losing, of forgetting, although he's never been particularly talented in the art of _keeping_.

“I... want you to fuck me,” Allen says, voice strained. Then, with a hint of humor, “I thought that was evident.”

“Be more specific,” Kanda says roughly, giving Allen a hard look. “I want you to be fuckin' _selfish_ , remember?”

“Selfish,” Allen repeats, releasing a breath. He stalls visibly, hands sliding down from Kanda's shoulders to his biceps, where he traces idle patterns with the tips of his fingers. His touch is feather-light. It takes a while for him to find his voice, but Kanda's feeling patient, perhaps uncharacteristically so. “Okay, okay. I. I want... I want you on top of me. Holding me down.”

“And?” Kanda prompts him, urging him on. Allen's hands fall to his chest, over his pectorals. It's here that they stop, palms flat, like maybe he's trying to feel Kanda's heartbeat.

“I just... I want to be close to you,” he says. The huff of a warm laugh, eyes full of desire. “Okay, so. Maybe that's not the raunchy dirty talk you were looking for. But it's the truth. I want you, on top of me. Close to me.”

Allen's hands fall back down to the bed, wrists bared upwards. With his head tilted back and his legs spread, he looks so staggeringly, beautifully _exposed._ So fucking vulnerable, so totally at Kanda's mercy.

It's like he's giving himself over to Kanda. Giving himself up, giving in. Completely, fully, gorgeously.

 _You're mine,_ Kanda thinks. The thought comes to him with violence; dark and real. _Now and forever, fuck. Won't fucking let you go._

“Should I keep going?” Allen says hazily, turning his chin into his shoulder. Lashes fanned so low as to caress his cheek. Lower lip exaggerated in a mock-innocent pout. He's playing fucking coy, even now, and it makes Kanda want to _tear him apart._

At first, Kanda doesn't even bother answering at all. He leans forwards over Allen's body, lips wandering across Allen's cheek and towards those pretty pink lips.

This menace. This animal. This gorgeous creature, this pass-around whore, this fucking gorgeous, terrifying thing. Kanda's self-proclaimed saviour.

“Yes,” Kanda finally says, short. This affirmation is nearly lost where it is spoken against the corner of Allen's mouth. But it's enough. The vague, too-hopeful outline of Allen's smile is proof enough of that. It'll do. “Go. Go on.”

“My legs around your waist,” Allen says, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Your, your cock inside me. Thick, filling me up — and it almost hurts, it's almost too much, but I _can't_...” Kanda slides away from Allen, towards the edge of the bed, fumbling blind for the half-emptied bottle of lube he's got lying haphazardly at the bottom of the drawer. All the while, Allen follows him with his eyes. The silver is warm and growing warmer still. “I can never say no. Can never get enough of you, fucking me hard and hot, like I belong to you. Like you _own_ me.”

And _fuck_ if that isn't the hottest thing Kanda's ever heard.

He uncaps the bottle and slicks up his hand, watching Allen shift and shake, pulling his legs up coyly. He rubs his own fingers together, warming them up, deliberating. There's a power in this, in the waiting, in the wanting.

 _You do not have to be pinned,_ Kanda thinks, _or_ _prone, to be possessed, Allen. To be owned. After all, you own a piece of me. And it fucking kills me. Kills me to know that._

“Selfish enough for you?” Allen tilts his head to the side, voice breathy and quiet. Kanda follows the sound of his voice on both knees, reaching for him.

“We're getting there,” he answers, shortly. His hands find them selves between Allen's legs, between his thighs, slick and wet, guiding themselves up towards his hole. Allen lifts his hips up in an unsteady jerk, as if to help Kanda along.

“Really, nothing is good enough for you, is — _oh!_ ”

And then Kanda is fingering Allen, tortuously slow, spreading him open. Allen's head falls back against the mattress, letting out this high, shuddering moan.

“Yes,” Allen hisses, breaths coming out heavy and hot. There's something erotic in the the way his chest rises and falls. Something coquettishly obscene. He's skinny and flushed, nipples hard and pink, muscles in his stomach twitching, straining. “ _Yesyesyes_ , God, th— that's _good_ , so good.”

Kanda's digits feel hot and slick as he pumps them in and out, loosening him up. Kanda loves this part. He loves how dirty, how obscene it feels. Loosening Allen up for his dick. Allen's hole sucks his fingers in, whining and squirming as he's fingerfucked. It's incredible, really, how quickly he can be reduced to writhing. Already, he's letting out these tiny, panicky little moans — but he can't come like these, Kanda knows. Not now, at least. Not today. He needs Kanda's cock. He's vocal about it, too, gripping the sheets and chanting his own needy litany.

“Fuck me fuck me fuckmeplease, _please_ , want your cock, your come, want you so fucking bad.”

(And there it is, a stab of want, a vicious pleasure. _It feels good to be needed._ )

Allen's eyes are screwed up tight, and his hands are tight in Kanda's air, and he's going on and on, “So fucking _bad_ , Kanda,, I want I want IwantIwantIwant _Kanda_ _please, come inside me, I need_ _—_ ”

This, this is something Kanda knows how to handle. It's _better_. Better than Allen's gentle, barely-there touches to his hair. His hope, his moonbeam eyes. With a wet sound, Kanda pulls his fingers out of Allen sharply. Before Allen can really protest the loss, Kanda is back, on top of Allen, body heavy, lining the head of his cock up against Allen's entrance, _holding him down._

Allen struggles weakly against Kanda's hold. Token resistance, Kanda knows. After all, what's the point of being caught if you're so easily released? Kanda holds him secure, holds him tight and hard. He knows Allen finds a thrill in this, in being taken, in being forced down. Dominated.

Proof of ownership.

He twists Allen's wrists over his head and fucks into him, hard. They keep a merciless pace, but Kanda thinks this is what Allen wanted all along. The headboard rattles. Allen cries out, too loud, too messy. For a minute — a whole goddamn minute — Kanda manages to convince himself this is just fucking, just sex. Not... not _lovemaking_. His cock pumping deep into Allen's tight hole, marking him, bruising him. Just fucking.

_(Something to love is something to lose, Yuu.)_

But then he kisses Allen, and he can taste the cream on his tongue. The cream of the tea Kanda made him. And he remembers the way Allen held the mug in both hands, something kind of vulnerable and uncertain in the motion — at odds with the hardness in his eyes, this willful, reckless, diamantine _glint_. Hurting, but never helpless. Losing, but never lost. And never, ever powerless; not with the power he held over Kanda. Damned thing.

Allen's wrists are warm and slender. A blue vein travels down center crease of the right, diverting like a river before disappearing into his arm. As for the left — well. There's no seeing anything beneath the rough, patchwork mess of scarring. But what can't be seen, Kanda can feel. Kanda can feel muscle, bone sinew shift beneath his grip, breakable, close to the skin.

Allen's mouth, beneath Kanda's, is warm and hot and open, tongue gliding against Kanda's, driving him fucking crazy. There's no rhythm to this, fucking Allen, kissing Allen, but Allen loves it. Moaning and gasping and whining, pressing his mouth up against Kanda's ear just to tell him, “ _YesyesyesdarlingKandayesyesyes.”_

Allen's body, locked tight and wanton around Kanda's cock.

“ _Kanda, right, right there, I'm gonna losemyfuckinmind, feels so hot_ _—“_

His breath, hot against the shell of Kanda's ear. The texture of his scarred-up wrist, bucking up into Kanda's hand.

“ _Oh, oh, oh oh oh I'm gonna I'm gonna come don't stop_ _—“_

Kanda loves hard, loves with his entire body, with everything he is. He doesn't know any other way. He loves Allen, loves him, and he hates himself for it. People like him, they shouldn't be allowed this; he shouldn't be allowed to feel without abandon. But he fucking does.

He comes inside Allen, shivering beneath his skin.

And he loves him, right then. Completely, and without abandon.

 

# ⚜

 

 

"Hey," Allen says. He's poking, jabbing at Kanda's ribs with his index finger. Kanda's not sure whether to be endeared or annoyed. It could go either way, at this point. "You falling asleep?"

Kanda cracks an eye open, just in time to see Allen's peering forwards, looking earnest but relaxed. He looks admittedly sweet, dressed in only his boxers and one of Kanda's spare sleep shirts. 

"No."

"Really, now," Allen smiles. It's a dopey smile, really. Kanda, very willfully, decides he's annoyed after all.

" _Really,_ " he enunciates. He turns over onto his side, shooting Allen a hard look. And then he stops. Because Allen's dopey, sleepy little smile suddenly doesn't look like a smile at all. Behind the mess of Allen's fringe, his eyes are wide with stomach-turning uncertainty, face gnawed white by nerves.

"You don't mind if I spend the night, right?" Allen continues. The way he says it, so faux-casual, tracing absent patterns into the sheets beneath him, you'd almost think he didn't really give a shit about the answer. But he does. Kanda pushed himself upright, the fan of his dark hair following the motion with a ribbon-like fluidity,

"You're _more_ than welcome," he answered. Then, half-agitated, half-desperate, "I keep telling you, you're _always_ welcome."

Allen's smile falls the way a feather might, slowly and softly and unevenly.

"I know, I know."

"Then why--"

"It's just. It's hard, that's all," he says. There's the sound of his nails rasping against fabric; Kanda glances down, and sees that Allen's hands have balled into fists. "I don't know how to... take liberties with people. I wouldn't know where to start."

"Start here," Kanda says. He leans in, lips brushing against Allen's temples. Allen startled, stiffened, and then sighed. Surrendered. "Now get some rest."

Allen's eyes rose to meet Kanda's. Some of their usual foxy glitter had returned-- that was good. Reassuring.

"Okay," Allen says, the sound of his voice so unspeakably gentle it only barely reached Kanda's ears. Kanda turned Allen's face aside in both hands, pressing a dry kiss right above his cheekbone.

"Hey. Allen."

"Yeah?"

"I'm a sure thing, alright? I'm not going anywhere."

A pause, a rustle of fabric.

"Kanda," Allen says, moving forwards, into the warmth of Kanda's body. Under the lamplight, his skin had the shimmering luster of a pearl. "You know I love you, right?"

"I do," Kanda says, even though he didn't, even though his heart was hammering beneath his skin. Then, after a long breath, "Now go the fuck to sleep."

Allen's laughs. It's this laugh Kanda loves, this laugh he hates.

"Alright, alright." 

**Author's Note:**

> i was cleaning out my wips, so. have some between-projects yullen fritter.
> 
> fuckhowardlink / twitter  
> hurryupfic / tumblr


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